


When the Light Gets Into Your Heart

by Peapods



Series: The Fire Thief [1]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: "Diane, what do you know about a special agent named Albert Rosenfelt, and why is he so angry?" or How Albert Rosenfield Met Dale Cooper While Covered in Vomit.





	When the Light Gets Into Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is one scene about a pregnant woman that might be triggering. That is the violence mention in the warnings and the reason for the Mature rating. See End Notes for what actual scene to skip and let me know if more warning is needed.

Albert Rosenfield is emphatically _not_ a field agent. He tells his superior as much when he is ordered to report to Colorado Springs for a crime scene. Vince Harris kindly advises him to change his shoes before he gets “on that fucking plane.”

“You’ve impressed someone upstairs, Rosenfield, though God only knows how given your allergy to authority, and they’ve put in a special request. So get your ass to SFO before I bust your ass back down to cadaver duty.”

Harris doesn’t have the authority to bust Albert down to anything, but the man could make Albert’s life a living hell if he so pleases. Ergo, Albert dons his Doc Martens, gathers his equipment, and gets on the charter plane to Colorado. 

On the way to the scene, he lights a cigarette and goes through the case file. A hash job had been made of the first autopsy, the coroner believing it was a simple murder--greed and passion and jealousy. When the second body showed up, a state away, they had called in the FBI who hadn’t done much better of a job. He checks the name and sniffs derisively. _Jackson is an asshole who’s more interested in a cushy desk job._ Now, there are three bodies fitting all the parameters of the previous murders and this time the SAC wanted the best the FBI had to offer. Albert supposes he should be flattered.

He steps out and stubs the cigarette into the mud that slicks the concrete.The abandoned tenement building he's been brought to looms menacingly even in the watery sunlight.

“Agent Rosenfi-” says the agent there to meet him, but that’s all the kid manages before barfing spectacularly all over Albert’s suit. He can feel it in his waistband.

“Ah, Agent Rosenfelt, my apologies for Agent Leider,” says another man and Albert only registers ink black hair and a jawline like Cary Grant before turning back.

Albert looks back at the green-faced agent. “First time, kid?” Albert asks, even though he’s probably the same age as him.

“Yes sir,” he ekes out.

“Go clean up and be thankful you didn’t puke on the evidence or I’d hand you your ass,” he snarls.

“Yes sir,” the agent hurries away, looking pale now instead of the suspicious green.

His driver has already pulled his overnight bag from the trunk and hands him a coverall. He takes both with a nod.

“Let me guess. I have the honor to be addressed by the agent in charge. Cooper, was it?” He turns back to Cary Grant. He is taken aback by the man standing in front of him. 

He can’t be much older than Albert if at all, but he carries himself with experience and confidence. His black hair is slicked back in a style that Albert would like to find offensive but somehow suits the sunny smile being aimed his way. It’s the smile, more than anything, that throws him for a loop.

“You just win a bet or something?” Albert snaps.

“My apologies, Agent Rosenfelt.” Albert suppresses the urge to growl and allows an eye twitch. “I was simply impressed with the way you handled that young man’s situation. Another agent might have belittled him or been harsh with him regarding the soiling of their clothing. I imagine being sick on a superior agent was punishment enough.”

He has an odd way of speaking, this guy, distinct and complete, like he doesn’t want to leave any grey area in the conversation. Albert, begrudgingly, appreciates the candor. 

“Right, well, if we fired every person who tossed their cookies on their first crime scene we’d be more than a little short on agents,” Albert says. He doesn’t mention that this is technically his own first crime scene.

“Special Agent Dale Cooper, Agent Rosenfelt, a pleasure to meet you.” He sticks out his hand. Albert searches for the lie because no one has ever been pleased to meet him, but Cooper looks suspiciously sincere. Albert takes the hand for a brisk shake.

“Alright Cooper, have your people at least cleared a bathroom or am I going to need to drop trou in the mud?”

“The entire building has been cleared. The scene is in the basement.”

“Well then if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go wash off for about the next ten years. I want the initial report ready for me when I get back. Think you can handle that, buddy?” 

He stomps off without waiting for an answer.

*****

Forty-five minutes into the first autopsy, Albert is thoroughly mystified and that feeling makes him want to throw the rib spreader at the wall. He cannot find cause of death.

Death is not something that has ever tried to elude him, not since he arrived home one afternoon, aged 16, and found his abuela dead in her chair. She was looking at the still running television, her mouth down-turned in a funny manner and he had known she’d had a stroke. His father, four years later, had expired in his hospital bed and Albert had practically been able to smell the cancer that ravaged his body while doctors stood by flummoxed. 

He works methodically, records his notes, one body after another, only taking breaks to refill his coffee. He desperately wants a cigarette. But he uses the morgue phone to call Agent Cooper first.

“You can’t determine cause of death?”

“Near as I can tell, they died in their sleep, peaceful as can be. Though quite possibly it was the dehydration and starvation, but that doesn’t explain the stomach full of creamed corn I found in the last victim.”

“Thank you, Agent Rosenfelt, your diligence is appreciated.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Albert says, hanging up.

Albert knows contaminants better than anyone so after the autopsy he waits until he hits the MEs’ doors before lighting up. The cigarette supplies a wonderful a rush to his head and is a welcome reprieve, but all he really wants is a taco and a bed. He resigns himself to the reality that the tacos will probably be Taco Bell and the bed will probably have a Magic Fingers instead of a decent mattress. 

He is somewhat surprised to see someone waiting on the curb. Dale Cooper doesn't even look slightly rumpled for as long as he had to have been at the site and doesn’t even have the decency to lean on the vehicle for support. Albert hates him a little. He blows out a puff.

“You lost?” he asks. 

“Not at all, Agent Rosenfelt. I understand you are without your own vehicle. I came to offer my services.”

“They get me a hotel room?”

“I believe Agent Leider obtained the room connected to mine.”

Connecting rooms was a good sign. The shitty motels the Bureau generally shelled out for rarely had luxuries like connecting doors. Usually, you were lucky if it had clean towels. Or so Albert has been told.

They get into the sedan, Cooper looking at him pointedly until he stubs the cigarette out.

“Also, it’s Rosenfield. R-O-S-E-N-F-I-E-L-D.” People have been getting it wrong for years. Albert should just start spelling it immediately upon meeting people.

“My apologies, I only heard your name from my supervisor.”

“It’s fine,” Albert says curtly.

The ride to the hotel is quiet except for the cowbell of Steely Dan on the radio. Albert can feel the yawning hole in his stomach from too much coffee, too few cigarettes, and the unfortunate need for food.

“Mind if we go through a drive-thru?” Albert forces himself to ask.

“Not at all.”

Armed with tacos, Albert feels far more sanguine about the rest of the night. The hotel is nicer than what Albert had expected and he lets out a breath that tries to expel the entire day in one burst. They stop for Albert’s room key and Albert thinks that will be the end of it, that he can strip down, scarf his tacos, and pass out. Except someone is knocking on the adjoining door.

Albert sighs deeply and opens it. He is greeted by his small suitcase.

“Agent Leider entrusted this to my care.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he takes it and tosses it to the bed. Cooper looks expectant. Albert just gives in, holding open the door and gesturing the other agent in. He doesn’t stand on ceremony after Cooper situates himself at the small table, and stuffs half a taco in his mouth. When he finishes the first taco, he asks, “So, how did I warrant a call out?”

Cooper looks genuinely surprised by the question, “Agent Rosen--”

“Albert. If you’re going to sit there and watch me bolt what this country passes for tacos, you can at least address me by name.”

“Albert, then. I would have thought my reasoning would be obvious. According to my superior, you are the foremost forensic mind at the FBI, or so your own superiors have reported. A case like this demands only the best.”

It’s a politician’s answer and is largely unsatisfactory, for all Albert is sure he’s sincere.

“I’m in no way in need of an ego boost, Cooper. I know exactly how valuable I am and how much I’m needed. I could be in my lab solving ten cases, but instead I’m stuck in Bumfuck, Colorado and working on one case. So why don’t you try again?”

Cooper’s gaze is steady. They are two young men and too young to be in their positions and yet here they are. As far as he knows, Cooper is one up on him for he clearly knows more about Albert than Albert knows about him. Albert doesn’t let this intimidate him. He’s spent much of his young adulthood nursing a hot coal of anger to counter the gnawing anxiety of being the youngest, smartest kid in the room. He stuffs the rest of his taco into his mouth and dumps the trash as he chews. He washes it down and wishes his soda was beer instead. He reaches for another taco.

“I dreamed of you.”

That gets Albert’s attention fairly easily as he nonchalantly rearranges the cheese on his taco. It’s not something a man says out loud to another man. Not in a professional setting. Not in this day and age. Not when higher education and Quantico would have taken care of any notion of being open and honest about feelings. Not when the two of them had never even met before today. He looks up at Cooper.

“You dreamed of me,” Albert says flatly.

“My dreams have been known to provide valuable insights during investigations. I knew you would be important to this case after I was apprised of your involvement.”

He’s not messing with Albert. It’s evident he believes every word he’s saying. 

“I saw them, before they died. I knew they would die and there was nothing I could do to stop that. I only knew that I could deliver them some solace by finding their killer. And then I was shown you.”

“Was I carrying a tray of cheese?” Albert asks, absently remembering a dream from long ago. 

“No. But I doubt you will believe me when I tell you what did happen.” Albert allows himself a minute to just eat, to process through this ridiculous notion.

“What did happen?”

“You were in a shoe store buying a new pair of boots and berating an incompetent salesperson.”

“Brand?” Albert asks.

“Doc Marten.”

There is no way Cooper got that good of a look at Albert’s shoes before he’d relinquished them to his lackey and there were ten other boots that looked exactly like his and that idiot had tried to make him buy a boot ten times more expens--

“Lemme guess, a woman named Olga does your charts every month too,” he said, crumpling another wrapper and tossing it into the wastebasket next to Cooper. He wishes for that beer even more.

Cooper must have anti-asshole training because he doesn’t even roll his eyes at Albert.

“Look Cooper, I’m here to solve a crime, not get in touch with my spiritual side. You’re perfectly welcome to believe we have some kind of cosmic connection that make us the Wonder Twins of detective work, but I very much do not understand why you need to involve me in that rather deluded belief.”

“You’re one the Bureau’s finest minds on his first crime scene, having never been requested before despite proven success at the Academy and the lab. I do not ask that you subscribe to my beliefs, but I do have to ask if you have any theories on why you haven’t been called out before,” Cooper says. Out of anyone else’s mouth it would be cutting. It would be a deliberate push of Albert’s well-pushable buttons, a judgement and recrimination all at once.

From Cooper, it is simple curiosity. Albert has the revelation that Cooper can’t believe Albert’s never been out of the lab, hasn’t been hijacked by any number of special task forces for his skills. He’s begrudgingly flattered and stamps down on that feeling. 

“If your research skills are this shit, it’s no wonder you have to rely on that hokey spiritual crap,” Albert says, relaxing back in his chair, sipping on his soda. “Let’s see, how would the school counselor put it? ‘ _Albert is a gifted boy, however, he alienates the other children when he calls them stupid, but won’t punch back._ ’” He raises an eyebrow at Cooper. “Succinct enough for you?”

“You don’t carry a firearm,” Cooper says quietly.

“I do not.” Albert says shortly.

“The FBI would seem an odd choice of employer for a pacifist.”

“On the contrary, I may not condone violence, but justice and I are great friends. It just so happens most SACs aren’t terribly fond of an agent who won’t shoot back, much less carry, ergo my less than stellar field record and my ever-burning curiosity as to why I’m here.”

“You’ve read the case file,” Cooper says.

“Morons, they should all be sent back to first year.”

“Then you know why you’re here.”

*****

Dale Cooper, it turns out, isn’t a dismissable sort of man. Albert vacillates between irritation and respect for his investigative prowess. For all that Albert was dragged out of his lab on the whim of a dream, Cooper is rational and by the book in much of his field work. His most obvious eccentricity is the tape recorder that he speaks to periodically, almost always addressing someone named Diane.

Beyond that, he makes intuitive leaps that leave most of the other agents staring at him with confusion. Albert withholds judgement. 

Cooper is serious on the crime scene, dark eyes that seem at times brown and other times green appearing to pierce through the mysteries in front of him. Albert directs the photographer, keeps his own eyes peeled, and watches Cooper. When he’s done all he can, when he can see that Cooper is far away in his head, he leaves.

Outside, he lights a cigarette and sends a disgruntled look at the cadet blue sky obscuring the sun. Albert hasn’t had a lot of opportunity to ask himself what the fuck he’s doing with his life, but his first crime scene seems a good place to start. He’s more comfortable in his lab. He’s more comfortable with control and sterility. Corpses don’t mind how caustic he is. Corpses can’t hit him when he insults their intelligence. Corpses aren’t disappointed when he won’t hit back.

Off to the side, as he takes his last drag, he sees Cooper emerge, that ubiquitous tape recorder held to his lips. He looks contemplative and vaguely worried. Albert feels a rough pang of attraction--Cooper is just his type--and viciously ignores it. This is no place and this is no time and there is no way that he’s going to even entertain the fantasy when it involves a co-worker.

Cooper finishes with his dictation, or whatever it is he’s doing, and approaches Albert.

“This is a strange and difficult case, Agent Rosenfield,” he says.

It’s an icebreaker and Albert has always hated icebreakers, “There some point to this line of conversation you’re starting up?”

“I’m glad you’re with me on this.”

*****

“What do we have?” Cooper asks, walking into the conference room that serves as the base of operations.

“Bupkis, nada, nothing,” Albert says, throwing down the three coroner reports in quick succession. “This cat works clean. He wore gloves while he worked, possibly an entire clean-suit. No prints, no hairs, not even stray dandruff.”

“All three were from the Denver/Boulder area,” Cooper tells him, producing new photos and dossiers to be added to the reports. “They had nothing in common except their sex and relative proximity to each other.”

“And no signs of cigarette use, sexual assault, or even similar dye jobs. I can’t tell you how he’s picking them or why he wants them.”

“And the site?”

Albert pulls out his last report and has a seat at the table. Cooper follows, eyes following Albert’s fingers unsubtly as he flicks through photos, laying them out in a fan. “Three holes, three bodies. But, there’s evidence here-” he pointed to the fourth photo, “-of a filled in area. My opinion? Four holes for four women, but maybe he never got his hands on the fourth. We can’t find any evidence of a fourth female.”

Cooper bends over, intent, and the gloss of his black hair catches the light and absorbs it. They’re both young, but Cooper doesn’t even have the wrinkle that’s been steadily excavating a deep furrow in Albert’s brow, much less the lines that crease his forehead.

Albert’s not ready to acknowledge the receding hairline. He’ll be as bald as his grandfather before he’s 40.

“Three victims and four graves. What happened to the fourth girl?”

“Any missing persons reports that match the profile?”

“A female between the ages of sixteen and thirty?” Cooper offers dryly.

“Touche,” Albert acknowledges. “The uh, the only other thing of note is the ring.”

“Wedding ring? Two of the victims were married.”

“Do they both have wedding rings? Because neither of the other bodies have any jewelry on them.”

Cooper checks the photos. Two rings, gold, not silver like the one they found.

“So why the ring?” Albert asks. “Why the risk of an identifier?”

Cooper appears to have no answers. When Albert looks him in the eye, he fears Cooper is far, far away from him. He also notes the gold circle around the other man’s left pinkie ring. 

“You’re not about to go on a tangent about evil, are you?” Albert asks.

Cooper’s glance at him is drier than the Atacama, simultaneously amused and disapproving.

“It’s a token. He branded her. He chose her. Why? Why not the other two?”

“I’m a pathologist, Cooper, not a mind reader. That’s, apparently, your turf,” Albert says, packing up his case. 

*****

The ring has no known provenance. Albert has powdered and sampled and run 18 different kinds of tests, but there’s nothing. Cooper said the ring had branded the victim. Albert was no criminologist--not to the extent an agent like Cooper would be--but he had enough training, or maybe enough common sense, to start making comparisons. After all, only one of them had a stomach full of creamed corn.

Albert wants to slap himself upside the head.

He pulls out the reports for the other dead women--one in Albuquerque and one outside Las Vegas--and checks. Four kids, one kid. 

He throws a few bills down to cover his coffee and bacon and retreats to the phone booth. The agent on phones tells him that Cooper is talking to one of the victim’s family. He had met them at the hotel.

Albert spots them as soon as he walks in the door. Cooper is speaking softly to obviously distraught parents, with one hand on the mother’s shoulder. This is the part Albert can’t do, why he prefers the lab. 

A lot of people become FBI agents for the same reason Albert did--because they believe in justice. But those same people believe in justice for the living--for those who had to go on, who needed closure, who had been wronged. Albert believes in justice for the dead. 

When he came home from his first fight, age 10, bloodied and seething, his father had taken him aside and told him that there was a difference between being good and being kind. He told him that every human being had a right to life and liberty, regardless of the crap that came out of their mouths. He told him that sometimes it was better to be honest, than to be kind.

_“Those unenlightened with regard to injustice may hate what you say, but remember that you may be the only one willing to say it.”_

Albert was his mother’s son, stubborn and unwilling to take anyone’s shit, but it was his father who taught him the lessons that he follows today. 

Cooper sends the family on their way and notices Albert in the same moment.

“You found something?”

“Something I should have noticed before,” Albert growls. “Dawn Segal, the one with the ring? Was the only victim, of all five, who hadn’t been pregnant at some point.”

Cooper’s eyes were wide as he took in this information. “Excellent work, Agent Rosenfield. It’s the only connection we’ve made so far that makes any sense.”

“Still doesn’t explain the victim choice. Only _maybe_ explains the ring.”

“The path is winding and perilous, Albert, but I believe you have set us on a course that will lead us to the correct destination.”

*****

The scope of the investigation shifts with Albert’s revelation. Cooper has agents pulling information about the victims’ medical histories and they find that the three new victims all frequent a women’s clinic between Boulder and Denver.

“I want you with me, Albert,” Cooper says as they're discussing next steps in the investigation. Albert glares, unable to contradict him when there’s some whacko on the speakerphone agreeing with him.

“ALBERT IS TOP NOTCH, COOP. THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST.”

He can see one of the other agents snickering. He angles a look at him that shuts him up.

“Agreed, Gordon!” Cooper says, loudly. “Without him, we might have come to a dead end!”

Albert desperately hopes the room is shadowy enough to cover the flush at the top of his collar. He crosses his arms and leans against the desk behind him. There’s a piece of Albert just aching to pipe up that he’s not a field agent, to tell Loudmouth that he’s not remotely qualified for this, and he stares at the floor quickly articulating this, ready to talk, and he raises his head--

Cooper is staring at him. 

Albert doesn’t know what that look is. Cooper’s brows are drawn to the middle, his mouth downturned.

“I apologize, Albert, I did not even think to consult you. I hope you are willing to overlook that oversight. It will not happen again,” Cooper says softly and seriously. Albert then notices everyone else has left and the blink of the phone is gone. He wonders how long he was standing there stewing in deep annoyance.

“I think I’ve mentioned once or twice before, Cooper, that I’m no field agent. At best, you’ll have an amateur investigator who can define the big confusing medical terms for you. At worst, you’ll have a pathologically irritating pacifist who won’t even be able to defend you if you get into any trouble.”

Cooper isn’t smiling, but there’s something about his eyes. They’ve gone…

_soft._

“Albert, that your thoughts turn to my safety is a testament to your character and your badge, but I assure you that I am more than capable of handling myself and will do my best to protect _you_ should such circumstances confront us. As for your first statement, well, what you need is practice and what I need is someone to define the ‘big confusing medical terms’ for me.”

Albert huffs a laugh that he can’t stop and looks away. He can already see Cooper’s smile from the corner of his eye.

“Alright, I’ll go along with this, but I won’t be dragged into whatever other crazy shit you and Senor Sonorous are so peachy keen on.” 

*****

The Bureau won’t spring for more than one hotel room when they hit Louisville, Colorado at nearly 8 in the evening. The woman behind the reception desk eyes them suspiciously as she slides the black bar of the imprinter over the credit card with a clang. She hands the card back to Cooper and turns to gather keys.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t suppose you could recommend a good place for dinner?” Cooper asks, polite as you could be.

She doesn’t answer and turns to gather two keys, sliding them into small envelopes. “Old Louisville Inn ain’t too bad,” she shrugs, handing over the keys. “Old Louis ain’t too terrible in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, that will be satisfactory.”

Albert sends Cooper looks as they walk to the room. “You really gonna trust that recommendation?”

“Is there some reason I should distrust it?”

“Only that it looked like she’d have rather recommended us to the nearest morgue,” Albert mumbles.

“Really, Albert, how does one devoted to peace see acrimony everywhere?”

“I’ve got a well honed sense for insincerity,” Albert dodges. “Tell me you didn't know what she was thinking when two young men walked in and asked for one room.”

“It's a small town, Albert. As a hotel owner, she may just be naturally suspicious.”

Cooper may be a hotshot special agent, but he also seems to be startlingly naive for someone who works in law enforcement. Then again, he also believes in evil as a concept that exists outside of humanity’s depths of depravity. 

Albert is about to offer a rebuttal when Cooper opens the door.

There is one bed.

He doesn’t even speak. He turns in the doorway and leans against the jamb, crossing his arms and staring at Cooper. There may even be a smile on his face.

“Huh,” Cooper says in a bemused sort of way.

*****

They can’t do anything with the investigation until morning and morning is far away so Albert indulges in a couple beers at dinner. His proactivity appears to inspire Cooper who also orders a beer. It’s possibly a bad idea, but Albert can’t face the thought of that single bed sober. The receptionist had told them it was her only room and they didn’t stock cots.

Of course it was and of course they didn’t. The circumstances were so ridiculous as to border on unbelievable.

The Old Louisville Inn is packed, but not unruly. The dark bar, packed to the ceiling with booze bottles, suits Albert just fine. They make an unspoken decision to sit catty-corner to each other, backs to the wall, to observe the drunken hoard.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?” Cooper asks out of nowhere as Albert sips at his second beer. He squints at Cooper.

“Pearly gates and eternal hell-fire? No,” Albert answers succinctly.

“Any sort of afterlife,” Cooper clarifies. “Buddhists believe that we are subject to eternal cycles of life until Nirvana is achieved but that can’t be achieved without the Noble Eightfold Path. Like most sects of Protestantism, Buddhism requires works in order to achieve the true end, the true reward.”

“Do _you_ believe in that crap?”

Cooper’s eyes are dark as they meet his. “I believe there is evil in the world and that there are some put on this planet to hunt it. I believe you are one of these people, Albert.”

“I’m checking your suitcase for LSD later,” Albert says.

Cooper smiles.

He learns something about Cooper in that moment: the man may not be unflappable, but nothing Albert says is going to alienate him.

Albert can’t quite believe it. 

They move back to the hotel after that, which Albert is dreading just a little. He’s a grown man. He can sleep next to another grown man without a problem. Cooper is almost certainly straight and definitely a professional. This is fine.

When he sees the pajamas, he starts laughing. He can’t even help himself, it arrives so suddenly. Cooper doesn’t even seem offended, just confused.

“You, uh, you got a pipe, smoking jacket, and house shoes to go with that get-up?” Albert finally asks.

Cooper doesn’t grace him with a response, but Albert suspects that if he wore glasses, he’d be peering over the tops of them like a disapproving school marm. Albert takes his kit into the bathroom, snorting quietly to himself, unable to keep the smile off his face. He takes care of ablutions quickly and joins Cooper, who sits on the edge of the bed speaking into his recorder.

“...we’ll be heading to the Avista Women’s clinic tomorrow. I have a feeling, Diane, all women have been patrons of that particular facility.” He clicks it off and sets it aside before picking up the side of the duvet and sliding in.

Albert realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom doorway and shakes himself, flicking off the light. His own pajamas are inoffensive but somewhat thread-worn. Next to the crisp lines of Cooper’s, he looks like a hobo. He feels like a teenager.

Albert briefly considers his ex and his deeply annoying sleep habits. He flips back the covers on his own side and starts to climb in. “You’d better not be a cover hog,” he grumbles.

Cooper, on his back, covers pulled all the way up chest, says, “The few partners who I have had the good fortune of sharing a bed with have never complained.”

Albert pauses on one elbow and stares at Cooper in disbelief. He honestly can’t believe the man is real, sometimes. He honestly doesn’t think Cooper has ever been with someone long enough to get used to their presence in bed. He settles down and turns his back to Cooper, stuffing an arm under the pillow.

“If you snore, I’m smothering you in the night,” Albert fires off before determinedly shutting his eyes. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep despite the heaviness of his eyes and the beer doing its work. Cooper’s form is warm and still and very _there_. The hotel smells deeply of industrial cleaner, but he can also make out something that has to be Cooper. Albert doesn’t wear cologne as there is little point in smelling nice for corpses, and his soap is homemade stuff with no scent whatsoever. He also doesn’t like clogging up his nose, even when the stench of death is so pervasive as to send even the most experienced coroner for the Vick’s. 

The smell that manages to creep over him is almost like vanilla, but not quite. It’s subtle, soothing, and masculine. Jack had smelled like Irish Spring and Old Spice. Albert had grown to hate it as their relationship fell apart.

“ _Stop comparing Cooper to Jack. Cooper is not an option. Get over it,_ ” he tells himself firmly.

“ _But damn if he doesn’t smell good,_ ” is his last thought before drifting off.

*****

Albert wakes suddenly, with an unwelcome shot of adrenaline, when Cooper sits up with a choking gasp. He immediately starts coughing, practically gagging, and Albert flicks on the light before jumping out of bed. He reaches for the nearest bin and thrusts it under Cooper’s chin before making for the bathroom. He fills a cardboard cup with water and grabs a box of tissues.

Cooper has stopped coughing and is just gasping quietly. He holds the bin by one hand, out of reach of his mouth, while the other hand grasps at his chest.

“Here,” Albert says, handing him the water and taking the bin.

Cooper sips carefully, looking thoroughly rattled. Albert is fairly rattled himself. 

“That, uh, that dinner repeating on you?” he asks, clearing his throat a little.

“I had a dream,” Cooper says, finishing the water and throwing into the garbage.

“Hell of a dream,” Albert tells him. 

“Albert--”

Albert holds up his hands, “You don’t have to tell me, Cooper. Dead people talk to me in my dreams, so it’s not like I’m going to give you shit for a nightmare.”

“I don’t believe it was a nightmare.”

“You woke up gagging,” Albert says. “You subconsciously into breathplay?”

Cooper looks confused and Albert has to remind himself that not everyone has learned the myriad ways a person can die (and orgasm).

“I meant in the sense that I do not believe the dream was a mere conjuring of images from my unconscious mind. I sense that we are on this killer’s track, but that we will ultimately be defeated.”

Albert runs a hand over his face with a deep sigh. It releases the last of his adrenaline and he feels very tired. “Guess the universe couldn’t wait until daylight to deliver this message?” Albert asks. “Look, let’s just get some sleep. Christ knows I need it.”

He climbs back into bed, intending to shut Cooper out immediately, but the other man is already leaning over.

“Albert, I could not have known how important your presence would be even after that first dream, but now I sense that your importance is related not just to this case, but to something far greater.”

“You want any vitality outta me, Coop, you’d better let me sleep.”

*****

Cooper is right about the women’s clinic and he’s right about the shitty looking green Valiant that has been lurking outside of it for months. 

They also discover that there’s one more woman missing--an 8 months pregnant single mother who had stopped showing up for appointments three weeks before. They run a partial plate and get an address and Albert hopes, without reason, that they get to save someone today.

“If we’re about to die in this guy’s basement, I would have liked my last meal to not be the dubious sandwiches we had at that diner,” Albert grumbles as they roll up to a clapboard and brick house on the outskirts of Louisville. 

The Valiant is parked in the driveway. There’s a power station behind it and an abandoned daycare next door. The house better suits a Midwestern setting, but it’s fairly well taken care of. The siding is clean and the lawn has been recently mown. But the house is very quiet. There are no curtains in the windows and no swing on the porch. The lot it sits on is set apart from the rest of the houses on the block. There’s metal fencing surrounding it and an extensive garden in the back that still manages to look overrun.

“As you’re not carrying a gun, may I suggest you stay in the car?”

“Not on your life, buddy.”

Cooper doesn’t press the issue and they both approach the house cautiously. Cooper’s knocks at the door produce nothing. No response, no movement.

Albert walks around back, Cooper following, and finds that a gate has been left open. The garden is extensive and there’s a large shed at the very back. He exchanges a look with Cooper before they approach. 

Cooper has his gun out as he eases open the door to the shed. They both peer in and stop at what they see. Albert thinks now that silence is a blessing. Because every part of him is screaming.

Her body is encased in glass and it has to be the only keeping the bugs and vermin from her. Metal poles prop her body, forcing her into a bow shape, her pregnant belly forming the stop of the parabola even as the strain of the pose takes its toll on the flesh. The blood on the bottom of the glass cage is thick and coagulated, like a horrific gel mold.

“The fourth,” Albert says, voice rasping through his dry throat.

“I do believe you are correct, Albert.”

They don’t step any further into the shed, but Albert combs his eyes over every cranny he can reasonably see. The body itself is practically pristine except for the rods. She had probably been dead when he’d began his little art project, but not by much. The shed has wood floors with no dust, no dirt, no footprints. On the bench to the left, there are an array of tools, most rusty and disused.

“Six women,” Albert says. “Five with husbands, four with children, and one with neither.”

“One worthy of marriage, one worthy of immortality,” Cooper adds.

They call it in. Agents arrive from the Denver field office and start combing the place. The house is ransacked, the garden is dug up, the shed is quarantined and still, there’s nothing. The deed is still in the name of its last occupant, the late Vera Simpson who’d died in 1965, and the only prints they find are old and covered in dust.

The evidence dries up with that horrifying tableau. Until-- _if_ \--another body turns up, this as far as they can go. Albert tells Cooper as much.

“I have a feeling we won’t see him again, Albert. I think he found what he was looking for.”

They share a long (and loud) conversation with Gordon Cole about the case. Albert has no pony in this race, but he can tell there’s something Cole isn’t telling them and Cooper knows it too. He shuts down the line with assurances that they will be heading back to Colorado Springs, but he doesn’t look remotely accepting about it.

He remembers what Cooper said about evil, remembers that he spoke of it with familiarity. What they saw could be nothing less than evil. Albert wonders at Cooper’s eagerness to meet with it again.

*****

Back in Colorado Springs, Albert is packing when the knock at his door comes. He drops his head, giving up hope of a clean getaway. He goes to the adjoining door and admits Cooper.

The other man takes in the scene with little more than a darting glance before he begins to speak, “Albert, I want to thank you for your help on this. I know that you’re probably missed in your lab, but it would be remiss of me not to pass on an offer from Gordon Cole to join our task force.”

Albert is the best in his field save a couple. Katz and James in Washington could give him a run for his money, but they’re getting old, set in their ways, unable to accept changes in the forensic field, unwilling to experiment. He knows why Cole would be interested, if the rumors about what his task force gets up to are true. It is, ultimately, a high compliment to even be considered. He’s just not sure he’s ready for it.

“I’m a pathologist and forensic scientist for the Bureau, Cooper. I go where the evidence sends me. I don’t sit on a superior’s lap and wait for scraps.”

“I can understand why you might be suspicious of the position, however it is more fluid than it might seem. Gordon calls me in when he needs me, but that does not mean I’m without purpose when he does not.”

“But it would mean a transfer.”

“We are stationed in Pittsburgh at the moment, yes. I am not authorized to give you all the details of our brief, but I can tell you that I believe you would be an invaluable asset. I know Gordon feels the same. After all, he is the one who set you on a path to intersect with mine and I cannot deny the rightness I feel when I contemplate our combined forces.”

Albert runs a hand over his mouth and looks Cooper dead in the eye. “You really believe that, don’t you?” Cooper doesn’t respond. “Cole knows about the gun? Or lack thereof?”

“He does.”

“He knows that I don’t put up with bullshit? I’m not going to climb up into this treehouse and suddenly become a true believer.”

“I think both he and I would welcome a critical and skeptical eye on these cases. There are times when the fantastical can blind us. I am no exception.”

The thing of it is, Albert has an almost desperate desire to say “yes.” To succumb to the inevitable insanity that this task force, whatever the hell it is, will deal with. All because of Dale Cooper. He is a good man and Albert would be a fool to spurn the company of a good man because he cannot stomach professional submission.

When he summons what faith he has left in him and for this man, there appears to be more than enough to definitely declare, “Alright. I’m in.”

The smile on Cooper’s face dulls the doubt and fear that he has just hitched his horse to a wagon he is in no way prepared to deal with.

That smile, in the end, could make it all worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I basically cherry-picked "My Life, My Tapes" when I realized that the story I wanted to tell didn't suit the exact timelines set out in the book. So if you're wondering if discrepancies are deliberate: they absolutely are.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Graphic, violent image of a pregnant woman, please skip the section that starts: "Cooper is right about the women’s clinic and he’s right about the shitty looking green Valiant that has been lurking outside of it for months." I don't believe missing that section will detract from overall understanding of the story.


End file.
